


do me a favour

by starrytobios



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Break Up, Childhood Friends, Drinking, Exes, Getting Back Together, Hinata Shouyou & Kageyama Tobio Friendship, Like so much, M/M, Miya Atsumu is Bad at Feelings, Miya Atsumu-centric, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining Miya Atsumu, Post-Break Up, References to Arctic Monkeys, Sad Miya Atsumu, Self-Indulgent, Sort Of, Underage Drinking, but not really, they sing all my favourite songs i’m sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27457882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrytobios/pseuds/starrytobios
Summary: And suddenly the stage is an abandoned music room after school. Atsumu’s mouth tastes like one too many whiteclaws, and the crowd has dissipated until it’s just him, the once love of his life, the only chords his fingers can remember, and the only words that he can manage to sing when he’s faced with his every sweet regret, packaged and hand delivered to him as Kageyama Tobio.Atsumu sees Tobio in the crowd and memories from years ago come crashing down on him.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio & Miya Atsumu, Kageyama Tobio/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 25
Kudos: 169
Collections: Haikyuu Angst Week 2020





	do me a favour

**Author's Note:**

> songs referenced in this fic:  
> Do Me A Favour - Arctic Monkeys  
> Riot Van - Arctic Monkeys

A hundred stadium lights shine bright, like a million burning stars in the night sky, solely present to light up Miya Atsumu’s universe. The universe in which he is the sun, right in the center of his solar system, guitar in hand as a skyful of planets orbit around him, singing his songs right back at him, at the top of their lungs in the cold, night air. There are other stars here tonight, other than his band, it’s a festival afterall; there are other solar systems in this galaxy, but right now, Atsumu’s is the one gathering all the attention.

They’re the closer, the headliner, the group everyone came to see.

Him, Shouyou, Bokuto and Omi. They are the supernova that engulfs all other acts before them. They are the act that the crowd cheers the most for, the group that is hurried back onto stage for an encore.

“Well ta’ thank y’all for comin’ to the show, we’d like to play one more song,” His voice is carried by the echo of the mic, but lost under the deafening roar of approval from the crowd. He grins, making sure to flash them his pearly white teeth, because he knows pictures are being taken and to be honest, he wants to look good in every single one. He’s pretty sure when he wakes up tomorrow, they’ll be a hashtag trending over his tongue — that’s a common occurrence at this point. He can almost envision the scowl that Sakusa will throw him before telling him how gross his habit of sticking his tongue out is, like he does after every show. And in turn, like always, Atsumu will chuckle, and say, _‘Well the fans seem to love it Omi-kun, and we gotta do everythin’ for the fans, don’t we?’._

He sucks in a breath, about to strike the chords of the last song on their agreed encore set. It’s a nice mixture of their tastes, a couple of songs from their older albums, upbeat ones that Bokuto and Shouyou love as well as more mellow ones that Sakusa tends to lean towards.

But when he looks back at the crowd, just for one brief moment, his gaze catches on a familiar set of eyes. And suddenly, the entire universe has stopped, just for him.

Blue. Atsumu is lost in a sea of cerulean, dragged under by the abrupt waves crashing on his shore. His throat has tightened, lungs stinging with the need to breathe, but the ocean won’t let him. The ocean wants him to drown, wants him to shiver in the embrace of all things navy.

Atsumu sees blue and suddenly he isn’t just twenty-five, he’s six and he’s picked up a guitar for the first time. He isn’t just twenty-five, he’s eleven and he’s met a new boy at school, a boy who plays the guitar like him, a boy who ends up stealing every piece of his heart and more. He’s not just twenty-five, he’s seventeen and he’s in love and he’s loved back. He isn’t just twenty-five, he’s twenty-one and he’s selfish, he’s jealous and he fucks everything up, because that’s all he’s fuckin’ good at. He isn’t just twenty-five, he’s twenty-three and he is despised, hated, a smear on someone else’s life that just won’t go away; he’s the person who is loved even when he is hated. He’s the person who wishes he did something different.

“Atsumu-san?” Atsumu hears Shouyou whisper from his side, and it’s only then that he remembers that everyone else in the stadium is present.

But he can’t do it. Atsumu can’t look away, not now. Not like this. Not when he’s finally found those bluebell shores once more, a familiar call of home. And suddenly the stage is an abandoned music room after school, his mouth tastes like one too many whiteclaws, and the crowd has dissipated until it’s just him, the once love of his life, the only chords his fingers can remember, and the only words that he can manage to sing when he’s faced with his every sweet regret, packaged and hand delivered to him as Kageyama Tobio.

So he does it. He does the only thing his body remembers how to do.

All it takes is a signal from his hand and Bokuto is already playing all the right notes. Omi rolls his eyes but begrudgingly joins in. It’s no big deal, but only because they’ve played this song about a million times, and he’s prepared to take the scolding from their manager for not sticking to the setlist.

_“Well, the mornin’ was complete.”_

Atsumu’s voice cuts through the night air, lyrics getting swept away as a little swirl of white fog against an ebony backdrop.

The crowd seems to love it though, already whooping at the first line; people always did love a cover.

_“Where there was tears on the steering wheel, dripping on the seat.”_

The clock is turning back, and Atsumu can hear its ticking overtake the rapid thumping of his own heart, so he lets it happen. He lets himself fall head first into the song, lets himself dive into the deep end, unsure of whatever lies under the surface of Tobio’s sea. Unsure if this particular ocean wants him back again, or whether it would strike him with a deadly cyclone. He remembers a hotel room in a city they weren’t from, an argument fresh in the air as he slept alone on a couch in Bokuto’s room instead of the bed that he should have shared with Tobio, reaching out for a figure that was no longer there. A figure that he pushed away.

His hands drift to the notes he knows like the back of his hands, and he hears Shouyou echo them, thankfully adapting well to Atsumu’s sporadic decision. Though he never had any doubts when it came to Shouyou.

He finds the courage to look back at Tobio, losing himself in the eyes of a successful, twenty-four year old, a boy he barely recognises anymore, but he still finds himself thrown back to a time when they were much younger, unknown, still chasing dreams that seemed a lifetime away.

Really, what does Tobio expect from him? Especially now that he’s right there, staring right at him, just like he did when they first met.

The rainy Monday morning is still fresh in his mind, the smell of the damp countryside invading his senses as he shuts his eyes, the stretching Hyogo horizon replacing stadium lights.

_“Several hours or several weeks.”_

Atsumu has gotten good at pretending, you tend to pick up skills like that in an industry where everyone is a persona and the only place you are truly yourself is in those fleeting moments on stage, when your heart accidentally pours out with your songs. That’s why he can stand with Shouyou, leaning against a cold railing as they watch The Adlers rehearse for the awards show tomorrow.

He didn’t have to come, he could have made up an excuse, something about a headache and headed back to their hotel, but how would that look? His bandmates would understand, he knows that, but still. He’s sick of feeling pathetic, Tobio is just a boy, a man, just someone from his past, surely by now, two years after they broke up, he should be able to act civilly.

(Although on the inside, even he knows that civility is not the issue here, it’s more so how to handle guilt swishing like kerosene in his gut).

Tobio’s fingers fly over the strings in a riff he would never have dreamed of doing back when they were in highschool, back when he was all too afraid of demanding too much from his bandmates thanks to those deteriorated friendships in middle school. He remembers being concerned, because the Tobio he had always known was not afraid of anything, especially when it came to music. But seeing him now? Atsumu can barely describe the feeling.

Tobio makes him want to grab his own guitar; makes him love music even more than he already does, which shouldn’t even be possible. Tobio makes him feel proud, saccharine feelings coiling in his chest, blocking up his throat with a unique flavour, a faint smile settling in the corners of his mouth. This boy, this man, he’s amazing. He’s nothing like when they were younger, god he’s preposterous and it makes Atsumu sick. He demands so much from his team that it’s crazy, and they really deliver. It’s absurd yet wondrous, insane yet prodigious, annoying yet inspiring. All these years and Kageyama Tobio never once stopped growing.

“He’s like this ‘cause of you, y’know? It’s all your fault.” He says it before he can stop himself and in a moment Shouyou is staring up at him, confused.

“What do you mean? Who?”

Reluctantly, Atsumu pulls his gaze away from the stage, “Tobio-kun. Ya’ woke him up. Now he’s a fuckin’ monster. You lot at Karasuno, took him and you taught him he could do _whateeeeeever_ he wanted and get away with it.”

“Ah. Well...I’m sorry?” Shouyou still looks confused and Atsumu just laughs, airy and amused.

“Yer the face of Karasuno, especially to him,” He remembers watching how quickly Tobio changed during his highschool years. Sometimes it almost felt like he was catching up too fast for it to be real, always about to overtake him, “So really I blame you.”

There’s an indignant scoff from behind them, where Sakusa and Bokuto are seated. Atsumu doesn't need to turn around to know that it was Omi who made that noise; Bokuto is too much of a sweetheart for that.

“Whaddya want Omi-Omi?”

“Nothing. I just think it’s funny that you think Hinata is the only one who changed Kageyama.” Sakusa replies, voice dry as ever, never missing a beat to try to prove Atsumu wrong.

Now that makes him confused and he turns around, pulling a face, nose and eyebrows scrunched up. He’s met with not only Omi, but also _Bokuto_ , shooting him exasperated looks.

“What’re y’all starin’ at me for? Take a damn picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Do you seriously not get it Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto sounds surprisingly serious. It’s not like he doesn't know how to have somber conversations, it’s just that they usually revolve around music, not whatever the hell is going on right now.

“Don’t get what?” Atsumu half-snaps just wishing someone would spell it out for him instead of talking in fucking circles like this was some sort of sage high council of elders.

“You also changed Kageyama. I thought you’d have been smart enough to realise that much at least.” Omi rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms, utterly tired of this conversation, clearly.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Tsumu, you were the one who was with him every summer, you’ve known him longer than the rest of us. Hell, you even know his family! Even _Hinata_ didn’t know about his sister until their third year of high school.” Bokuto lifts his arms, more than just a hint of incredulity present in his voice. However Atsumu doesn’t buy it. Just because he knew Tobio, doesn’t mean he affected him.

“What about that one time we visited that music camp?” Omi cuts in, reminding Atsumu of that winter in his second year of high school; he wasn’t surprised to see Tobio there, but the little shit could’ve let him know beforehand, “You called him a goody-two-shoes and proceeded to tell him that listening to your bandmates all the time, even when they’re wrong, is just being a pushover. If you hadn’t known him for so long I bet the kid would have had a bone to pick with you for years after that.”

“Yeah, Kageyama had a fit over the phone about it. But he _was_ different when he came back to school that year.” Shouyou’s admission makes Atsumu gape a little.

“I didn’t know that annoyed Tobio-kun so much.” He admits, a little ashamed, but not all that much.

“We’re just saying that Kageyama told you all sorts of things growing up, who knows what he would’ve been like if he hadn’t had you, no matter how far away you were.” Bokuto sounds convincing, but Atsumu knows that they can’t be right. In the end he would only ever be a hindrance for Tobio, he wasn’t strong enough, he may never be.

“I mean for god’s sake Atsumu-san, you were there for him when his grandfather passed away. None of us at Karasuno could’ve done that. He didn’t even tell me about it until our third year.”

Shouyou has this sparkle in his eye, hands curled into little fists and Atsumu just sighs. He wonders if he knows just how important he was – still is – to Tobio. How he’s the only person who can match him, can compete with him. If he did, he wouldn’t be standing here, trying to convince Atsumu he comes anywhere as close to him.

“Shouyou-kun, you’re the guy his grandfather promised him would show up, I can’t fill a spot like that.”

“No one’s asking you to. Kageyama never asked that of you; he never needed that from you.” His voice is sharp, like he’s scolding him and Atsumu just shakes his head, seemingly only pissing him off more, “We just don’t understand how you can’t tell that you were just as important to Kageyama as Karasuno was. As I was.”

“Drop it Shouyou.”

“Jesus Christ, _why_? Why should I drop it when two of my friends are acting like dunces?”

“Ya’ should drop ‘cause it ain’t none of your fuckin’ business.”Atsumu hisses, not in the mood for this bullshit. And of course Shouyou only ignores him, because that’s what he’s good at: finding the line you shouldn’t cross, then dragging you a hundred metres past it.

The shorter man grabs Atsumu by the jacket, eyes burning with the sort of fire that only shows up when he is on stage, and it manages to make him actually feel a little threatened, “You don’t know how many times he told me how much he _loves_ you. Yet you can’t seem to forgive yourself when that isn’t something you have to do. And you know why? _Because he never even blamed you_.”

Shouyou’s eyes widen a little at what he said, and he lets go, taking a step back. He doesn’t apologise, because he is Hinata Shouyou, and he doesn’t relent when he thinks he is right. Atsumu doesn’t protest because he’s still a little taken aback by what he was just told. Sakusa and Bokuto just stare in silence, and an awkward feeling hangs in the air, their little outburst now seeming quite embarrassing.

_“I'd have the cheek to say they're equally as bleak.”_

Do all those years Tobio and him spent together mean anything now? Several hours, days, weeks, years. All of it still lead to this very moment, to them being nothing more than strangers with history that still makes them flinch.

It all seems pretty fuckin’ bleak. To him at least.

Atsumu doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think he can. The words have escaped him, so he turns back to the stage, shoving away everything he had just been told deep into his chest, hoping it would dissolve into his blood, nowhere to be seen again.

_“It's the beginning of the end.”_

He is eleven, and Osamu is slouching, trudging alongside Atsumu, guitars in hand as the elder twin practically skips on their way to their weekly music lesson. He’s always been one to lose himself in his whimsical desires. Music, specifically the guitar, happens to be one of those desires. It has been since he saw an old VHS recording of a concert a few years ago. Seeing the way the guitarist controlled the melody, had the crowd wrapped around his finger, it all went straight to Atsumu’s heart, and lit up a fire nothing would ever be able put out.

His eyes have this sort of hungry look in them whenever he handles a guitar, every fret and pluck and strum is quite literally music to his ears, the only thing that can make Atsumu satisfied. Or, at the very least, make him feel some sort of semblance of contentment. Because there’s nothing out there that can truly placate the voracity that is Miya Atsumu’s desires. There’s no water wet enough, nor any forest flammable enough. Their Ma often jokes that he may engulf the whole world in his flames.

He’s not entirely sure what that means. He just knows it sounds cool. And if something’s cool, he has to be the first to try it out.

That’s when Kageyama Tobio steps into the picture. His small, round cheeks puffed out into a frown when Atsumu first sees him, strumming away on his little guitar like he was a gaping red giant, overtaking Atsumu’s galaxy. The way he played. _Oh god, the way he played_. No one should have that much talent. No one should be able to even come close to Atsumu’s abilities, not at their age, not someone a whole year younger than him, not without having poured their entire soul into music, so that must mean Tobio is as hooked as he is.

Tobio loves music like Atsumu does. More than ‘Samu, more than anyone. But maybe just as much as Atsumu.

Atsumu loves it.

He loves the gentle way Tobio’s dainty hands clutch onto his guitar like it’s a lifeline. He adores the concentrated expression he dons when he’s playing, like this is all that matters to him. He feels a little tug, like gravity, pulling him towards Kageyama Tobio.

“Yer real good, Tobio-kun,” Atsumu approaches him after music class, skin tingling with something new, flames dancing over the little hairs on his arms.

Tobio doesn’t say much, shuffling his feet and huffing out an almost inaudible ‘thank you’ before half-hiding behind his grandfather’s legs. Atsumu can’t help reaching to burn through Tobio’s walls, and _god_ does he want to. He’s never seen another boy quite like him; he’s never felt himself so drawn to another person quite like this.

“Don’t be shy now Tobio,” His grandfather laughs, warm and loud, the sound reverberating through the hall. Atsumu thinks he likes Tobio’s grandfather, “Don’t take it personal kiddo, our Tobio’s just a little timid.”

“Aw, well there ain’t no reason to be shy. I just wanted to tell ya that yer playin’ is real impressive,” Atsumu chuckles a little as Osamu stands beside him. He nudges his brother with his elbow, “At the very least, yer way better than this scrub here.”

“Oiiiii, why’re ya bein’ a jerk ‘Tsumu?” Osamu scrunches his face up in annoyance, kicking Atsumu in the back of his leg, bickering naturally ensuing. Their little dispute builds up until their Ma shows up, scolding the two of them and pulling them apart, to which Tobio giggles a little.

Atsumu finds himself staring.

Their Ma and Tobio’s grandfather — who he learns is called Kazuyo — begin conversing and Atsumu tries yet again to try and talk to this mysterious boy.

He quickly learns Tobio is not so interested in anything other than music, because the boy just shrugs and ignores most of Atsumu’s comments until he is asked about how long he’s played guitar for.

But the awkward half-conversations were worth it, because now Tobio has a sparkle in his eye, like a million galaxies deep within the navy of the night sky. He tells him that he’s been playing since he was five, that his older sister also plays, that his grandfather introduced them both to music. All the while Atsumu cannot help but admire the unrivalled joy in Tobio’s voice, like this is the very thing that he is on this earth for. It feels homely, almost reminds him of himself, of that VHS taping of a concert from years ago that sparked his passion.

He manages to tell Tobio of his own love for the guitar, for all music, and can only feel more enthused by the way the younger boy listens to every word like it is holy writ.

How can he look at him with so much feeling? It makes Atsumu’s head spin.

Their conversation is cut short by the adults deciding that it’s time to go, and the disappointed pout in Tobio’s face makes Atsumu’s heart do things it has never done before. So before Tobio leaves, he reaches out and grabs the younger boy by his coat, words almost dying on his tongue.

“Next time, Tobio-kun, play with me, ‘kay?” His chest feels so tight that he doesn’t understand how he managed to muster enough breath to speak, but he did and that’s all that matters.

And it’s the look in Tobio’s eyes — so suddenly intense, shining with hunger, like someone just lit up a fire beneath him — that sends electricity crackling up his spine.

“Sure, Miya-san.” Tobio gives him a look that is somewhere between a frown and a smile, but Atsumu will take it. He will treasure it too, because it feels like he has found someone that can be his equal, that loves music in the same, destructive way that he does.

  
And even now, even when Atsumu knows that this fateful meeting had sparked everything that took place in the last few years, that it was quite fittingly the beginning of his end, he would not dare to change a thing.

Maybe he’s a romantic; maybe he can’t make up his goddamn mind.

Who knows?

_“The car went up the hill and disappeared around the bend.”_

The traffic has lulled down to a legato, shrill horns and vexed hollering from earlier soothing into mellow, mildly-agitated grumbles.

It has been a few days since the awards show, a few days since he was last in Tobio’s vicinity. A few days since he fucked everything up all over again.

_“Aaaaand, that was ‘Sunflowers’ by The Adlers, the new single from their super successful album, Burnt Love Letters. And it’s just crazy that lead guitarist Kageyama Tobio was only nineteen years old when he wrote that song, on a flight to L.A. of all places. Not only that, but he provides the backing vocals for lead singer Iwaizumi Hajime as well. That’s just—”_

The radio host’s voice dies out in a little crackle as Atsumu pulls his hand back from switch, electing to now rest his head against the seat, hands gripping onto the wheel like it might also catch a flight to the other side of the earth, leaving him behind. Dull, grey tones of his car roof cannot distract him, and he finds himself wandering.

Atsumu scoffs: like he needs that radio host to spell out everything that song was about. He probably understands it better than anyone else ever will, second only to Tobio himself. He already knows everything he needs to know. He knew the second he heard Iwaizumi’s voice, singing Tobio’s words, unaware of who the burning sunflower field was, unaware of the significance of boys with scraped knees, and songs sang over shitty phone connections in the middle of storms. Unaware of how all those things set fire to the Pacific and all the bridges built with careful love and summertime heat.

Somehow, even in the silence of his car, it feels like Tobio’s words still remain, branding themselves into his skin.

That day feels so long ago — centuries, another lifetime perhaps — back when Atsumu’s hair was still that flaxen colour, before he had discovered toner and been berated by Miwa to take better care of it. He wonders if that night spent talking over the phone was when Tobio fell in love; he wonders if they were old enough to know what that meant.

He doesn’t need to wonder if that was when he fell in love; he’s known for a long time that he loved Tobio since they were kids.

That only makes it harder for him to forgive himself for leaving. Not once, but twice.

“And, how ‘bout ya’,” Atsumu speaks into the mic, leaning back on his chair as the gathering of press and fans try to figure out who he just pointed at, “Yes you, pretty lady with the pink hairband: what’s yer question?”

“Can you address the stories that have been circulating online recently about you and Hinata having an argument last week, prior to the—”

“Sorry to interrupt you there,” Meian’s voice echoes in the room, projected through the microphone he just picked up from Sakusa’s table. He doesn’t look all too pleased about it and grabs a disinfectant wipe as their manager continues, “But can the questions please stick to the album and band activities? I’m sure the guys don’t want to waste time over things their fans aren’t really interested in.”

“Hey, Meian-san it’s fine, I want to answer this question.” Shouyou gives their manager a thumbs up, and Atsumu prepares himself for what is about to go down, “Atsumu-san and I had a little disagreement, that’s pretty natural and bound to happen between close friends. And clearly we’re alright, aren’t we?”

“Right as rain.” He helpfully provides, grinning back, glad that he didn’t have to answer.

“See? That’s all there is to it, so it would be nice if we could let things like this go. Especially when Atsumu-san is the guy who asked me to join The Black Jackals in the first place.”

“Hinata! Can you please elaborate on that story?”

“Oh god, here we go again, we’re going to have to hear all about Atsumu’s dramatic, _‘I’ll play with ya’ one day’_ yet another time.” Omi rolls his eyes, his impression of Atsumu making the room chortle as the blond seethes from down the table, cursing him for the outrageous parody of his dialect.

As the crowd settles down from their amusement, Hinata continues, “I mean, Omi-san covered it pretty well there. Atsumu-san was visiting Miyagi for the first time and we played a couple of songs together, by the end of the evening I had this guy telling me that one day we’d be in the same band? I mean he was right but what the hell? I still wonder if he’s psychic.”

“Hey it’s not my fault you were so...so _you_.” Atsumu waves his hands around in an attempt to elaborate, but really, when can anyone ever explain Hinata Shouyou?

“Oiiii what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Good things I promise.” There's a cheeky inflexion in his voice that Bokuto seems to find hilarious.

“Well whatever. To this day, Kageyama teases me about that. I didn’t even do anything! Plus, the first thing he said once Atsumu-san was gone was,” Hinata takes time to push down his unruly orange locks, imitating Tobio terrifyingly well, “ _I don’t know why Miya-san wants to play with you; you still don’t know how to read sheet music properly_. I mean he was right but he didn’t need to say it!”

Atsumu chuckles and stares at the table, mystified by the memory of meeting Tobio’s friends for the first time and getting swept away by the hurricane that was – is – Shouyou. He was a force almost as terrifying and astonishing as Tobio himself. It’s funny how the fates can place two boys together and create the thing that will support them throughout their lives. Hinata and Tobio are fortunate to have met; Atsumu is even luckier to have known them for so long. He knows he is.

That night all those years ago, he went back to Tobio’s house and nestled up next to him in his bed, not daring enough to speak the words he wanted to say, but heedful of the train that would separate them in a few days, so he used their brief time wisely, bundled up in the arms of his love.

“I can’t escape that day.” Atsumu didn’t realise Shouyou was still talking and only looks up when there are a few noises from the press, “Sometimes I text Kageyama about how great something went in practice or how unreal it is to be a Jackal. And I kid you not, he goes _‘well you’re welcome, I introduced you to Miya-san anyway’_. I can’t beat him in a conversation that ends like that so he totally abuses it.”

Hinata laughs airily, taking a sip from his water bottle and yet another hand goes up.

“So you mean to say Kageyama of the Adlers is close to Atsumu?”

The group goes quiet, and Atsumu grimaces, not so fond of the attention he is now getting. He usually adores the spotlight, but all things Tobio deserve to be kept locked away, somewhere deep within the safety of his heart. Only his to reminisce over.

“I...I didn’t—” Shouyou stammers and Atsumu lightly shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I knew Kageyama Tobio when we were younger.” He shrugs like discussing Tobio, no matter how vaguely, doesn’t make his heart shatter, “We played guitar together. I’ve always thought that he’s real talented. There ain’t no more to it.”

“If there’s nothing more to it, what do you have to say to the rumours about you two?”

Atsumu blanches.

Shit.

He thought the press conference would finish without him having to speak about this. Putting on an unfazed facade, he decides to play it cool, asking, “Whaddya mean? What rumours?”

“Haven’t you seen the paparazzi pictures of you two heading to a hotel together?”

It turns out it isn’t that easy to just stop thinking about something, and the harder you try with certain conversations, the more adamant they become to remain. The seed that the rest of the band had planted a night ago has grown, roots curling around Atsumu’s windpipe, squeezing tighter and tighter and _tighter_ , until his breaths are wheezy, lobelias growing in what was once his inhabitable lungs, delphiniums bursting through the concrete he tried lining his heart with.

It gets worse as the evening progresses, artists perform, awards are handed out and with every passing second, Atsumu can feel a new stem prickling at the edges of his skin, sharp and ready to cut him. But he promises himself he can do this, and it works. Their performance goes without a hitch, and even the newly-formed garden blocking his throat and chest cannot stop him from singing like it’s the last time he’ll ever perform.

Atsumu can’t help it, the thirst to stand on stage will always burn brighter than anything else, especially since nothing is guaranteed in an industry that is as transitory as this one. You never know when you will wake up and the crowd will dwindle, until names that once were the most luminous stars in the sky remain as nothing more than slabs on a pavement. It may be bleak but Atsumu finds some twisted comfort in the truth, airways feeling clearer by the time he settles down with the other artists after their performance.

_“Ask anyone, they'll tell you that it's these times that it tends, to start to break in half, to start to fall apart.”_

Then The Adlers are on stage and everything that seemed okay goes to shit all over again.

Tobio’s silky black hair shines under stage lights, celestial, ivory hands running through a slicked-back fringe, as he stands tall on stage staring through Atsumu like he is nothing. Does he mean that? Is it intentional or is Atsumu paranoid? Is he that self-absorbed that he believes that everything in the universe, even this performance that has nothing to do with him, revolves around his puny existence?

Of course there are other men on stage; the rest of The Adlers play to their best, using up those skills they have cultivated since their youth, but Atsumu’s eyes betray every reasonable thought, and linger over Tobio.

Tobio whose fingertips are lathered in ebony, chipping at the ends like the night sky dissolving into the expanse of a guitar’s strings, like a million galaxies collected for a deity like Tobio to pluck. Tobio whose every note is pure perfection because he is incapable of messing up. Tobio whose lids are lined with electric blue, smudged at the edges, making the forget-me-nots that are his eyes glow like they are all Atsumu needs to get lost in. Tobio who also plays like this is the last time, like the world around him will come crashing down if his entire soul is not poured into his notes — trusted, loved — packaged for both his bandmates and the crowd.

One song down and the lights change; Iwaizumi is reaching for his guitar and Tobio’s hands curl around the mic, glitter kissing the delicate skin of collarbones Atsumu is familiar to. His voice ripples through the crowd and aims straight for Atsumu’s chest, clearly on a conquest for whatever damaged pieces of his heart remain.

And it’s okay; Atsumu gladly gives them up, for they were always Tobio’s to keep.

They have been since he was a child.

_“Hold on to your heart.”_

Atsumu is seventeen and Tobio is in Hyogo for the summer like every year. Except this year he’s finally going to do something about the feelings he has kept locked up for a preposterously long time, maybe even since the first day they met, six whole years ago.

“Miya-san, this seems like a bad idea.” Tobio whispers as if the very night will turn them into whatever authorities he thinks are patrolling.

But Tobio is all talk because, despite his objections, he does not withdraw his hand from Atsumu’s slightly larger one, going as far as to link their fingers together like they’ve been doing since they were little kids. All skinned knees and aching fingers, sore from plucking guitar strings all day. Maybe other people find it weird, two friends being so touchy, especially when one of those friends is Kageyama _‘averse to human contact’_ Tobio. But Atsumu revels in the fact that he is one of the few people that Tobio is used to being held by; he lets it go to his head even if he doesn’t mean it. And he most certainly doesn’t care what other people think, so he squeezes Tobio’s hand, dragging him along with a giant grin plastered on his face and a plastic bag filled with drinks they’re certainly too young to have, swinging in his free hand.

“Don’t be such a goody-two-shoes, Tobio-kun,” Atsumu teases, smirking at the glare he receives in return. The things he would do for that glare, for the boy who supplies them. God, he would hang himself by his ankles over a damn shark tank to get those cobalt eyes all focused on him. Like he’s the only thing Tobio cares about, like he’s second to nothing, not even music, not even the guitar, not even all their unspoken dreams.

Thoughts like that are indulgent fantasies, and Atsumu is mindful of that fact. Yet he still dips his toes into the lake of feasibility, trying his best not to get entranced by the sirens feeding him these ludicrous ideas, no matter how beguiling.

“Plus, you’re goin’ back home next week, so lemme show ya’ how to live a little, ‘kay?” He gets a grumble in response, to which he shoots a side-glare, an eyebrow angled up, “I ain’t hear ya, so I’ll say it again.”

He steals a glance in both directions, before pulling the lock so it can open in his hands, and swinging the door of the entrance to his school wide open.

“You’re gonna learn ta’ have a good time, eh Tobio?

“Did you just break the lock?” Of course, he’s dodging the question and concentrating on the less relevant details. Tobio’s head has always been in a different place to Atsumu when they’re not playing, but it keeps them tiptoeing around some variety of equilibrium, “That’s property damage isn’t it?”

“Not if it’s already broken.” Atsumu holds up the lock, "It's just for show, anyone could _'break in'_ to this place."

"Oh great. So we're just trespassing? Brilliant." Tobio rolls his eyes and Atsumu barks out a laugh, pushing the boy down the hall, both hands planted against his back.

“Oh you’re a kidder now, are ya? Who taught ya to be all sarcastic? Who’s been a bad influence on my _beloved_ little Tobio-kun?”

“Miya-san, you’re quite obviously the worst influence on me.”

Atsumu stops, slapping a hand over his chest dramatically, like his heart might give out at any moment, “How couldja say that? Yer words wound me.”

Tobio just tells him to quit being overdramatic, and the uneven pout on his face makes Atsumu want to smash their damn lips together already. He wants to know how it would feel, whether it would be better than the first time he picked up a guitar. He wants to know if Tobio wants this as bad as Atsumu needs it.

_Jesus, I've got it bad._

"C'mon, let's go to the music room." Atsumu doesn't know how he manages to get the words out with the substantial pressure currently pressing down on his chest. The things he would do for Tobio. The things he craves from him. All of it spirals around his chest until it's impossible to breathe when he's not with him.

Tobio doesn't protest now that he knows they are going to the music room; he's a simple creature with uncomplicated desires. Maybe that's why Atsumu is so smitten; perhaps that is why he wishes to bury himself under Tobio's waves and find eternal peace in the sanctuary of his docile currents.

A little while later, they find themselves sitting cross legged on the wooden floor of the music room, surrounded by instruments that aren’t theirs, forbidden treasures, and liquid gold dripping from their lips, seltzer cans scattered on holy ground. Tobio giggles, a sound that goes straight to Atsumu’s chest and carves itself into the precious tissue of his heart. His cheeks are flushed a little red, made of the rarest rubies, and the sapphires of his eyes are hazed, hidden by a cloudy look that Atsumu suspects is from their drinks.

He remembers how futile Tobio’s original demurrals were in the face of a few light-hearted challenges from Atsumu, along with his trademark smirk. Is Tobio usually this easily swayed? Or does he let down his walls for Atsumu specially? Is that too much to hope for, being Tobio’s one exception? Can he have something as precious as that? Can he have Kageyama Tobio?

“ _Miya-san_ ,” Tobio reaches out, arms clumsy and heavy, clawing at another whiteclaw that Atsumu rolls over his way. The younger boy cracks it open and Atsumu watches. He presses the can to his lips and Atsumu watches. Half the fizzing drink dribbles down his lips, and Atsumu watches as it creates a little stream that travels down Tobio’s milky skin, a black-cherry pathway that makes Atsumu _want_.

He wants to be the cold metal against Tobio’s warm lips. He wants to be the shimmering liquid highlighting his neck, dipping down the collar of his shirt, colouring patches of his ivory skin in amaranthine. Oh god, how he wants and wants and _needs_.

He settles instead for something he is sure they both will always want, licking excess seltzer from his bottom lip as he takes in every inch of Tobio’s slumped figure. “Play with me.”

This they can do. This they can always do. No matter what happens.

The younger boy looks up at Atsumu from the floor, clarity beginning to seep into his stare, as he manages to ask, “What?”

Atsumu swallows, pulling Tobio up so he’s sitting straight and the moonlight descends down his titled face, pale incandescence gingerly settling on onyx strands, making them appear as an iridescent blue. An elusive pearl, held by Atsumu’s unworthy palms.

“Play with me, Tobio-kun,” He repeats, breathless but more sure of himself than he’s ever been before, hands tightening around the fabric of Tobio’s shirt, “ _Please_.”

Tobio’s eyes widen ever so slightly but then he relaxes, leaning into Atsumu’s searing touch, inhibitions melting away like candle wax near an open flame, “What do you want to play?”

It’s only a short matter of time before there’s an acoustic guitar settled in Tobio’s lap as he awaits Atsumu’s new answer, because _apparently_ he sings the same songs too many times, even for Tobio’s liking. But then there’s a sure answer and Atsumu has perched his head on his shoulder, blond fringe pushed back messily, chest rising steadily as his breath prickles against the skin of Tobio’s neck.

Then he sings, all gruff and low, words slurring together just enough for it to be obvious that he had been downing drinks, _“Up rolls the riot van, and sparks excitement in the boys. But the policemen look annoyed, perhaps these are ones they should avoid.”_

Tobio huffs a little, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and Atsumu wants it to stretch through the entire landscape, like sunlight over a curving skyline. Maybe he finds the song choice a little on the nose, but really can he blame him? Atsumu’s brain is barely working enough to get the words through his lips, and the song seems to fit the occasion. Loosely, perhaps.

_“They got a chase last night, from men with truncheons, dressed in hats.”_ He sings it right into the crook of Tobio’s neck, glancing down at his hands as his pretty little fingers effortlessly drag along the strings, playing all the right chords with a sort of accuracy that shouldn’t be possible in a state like this, _“They didn't do that much wrong, still ran away though for the laugh, just for the laugh. And please just stop talkin’, cause they won’t find us if ya do.”_

He takes in a shaky breath, voice rasping with every lyric as he nuzzles closer to Tobio, skin feverish at every point of contact, the fabric of his shirt creating static electricity that crackles through Atsumu’s entire body.

_“Oh, those silly boys in blue. Well, they won’t catch me and you.”_ The heat is too much to bear, and it feels like Atsumu is scorching himself alive.

So he shifts onto his knees, trying to mask how flustered he is by grabbing the collar of Tobio’s shirt, fingers curling into the soft linen as the younger boy stares up at him. His eyebrows are furrowed with concentration, but he doesn’t miss a beat even though he’s not even looking down at his guitar anymore, and Atsumu wants those dainty, well-manicured hands to intertwine with his hair with some sort of desperate desire. Like a prayer, like a wish, like Tobio needs this too.

_“‘Have you been drinkin’ son?”_ Atsumu chuckles through the line, laxly pointing at Tobio like it is the funniest thing in the world and like his insides aren’t flooded with saltwater and yearning, _“Ya’ don’t look old enough to me.”_ Then he nudges Tobio expectantly, longing to hear the younger boy let loose and sing his heart out. Who cares if it’s bad or shaky or rough around the edges? As long as they have fun, Atsumu is content, even if water has filled his lungs.

And with a sigh, following huge puppy eyes from Atsumu, Tobio clears his throat, singing the response at him, _“‘M’sorry officer, is there a certain age you’re supposed to be, ‘cause nobody told me’.”_

His voice is like a hundred layers of velvet, smooth and soft and everything Atsumu wants to be draped in. It’s all so Tobio, but so unlike him at the same time. Low trembles like thunder rumbling in the sky on a cloudy day, like Miyagi’s storms, but smooth like a rushing river, sticky and honey-sweet, like humid Hyogo summers shared by two boys with big dreams.

_“And up rolls the riot van. And these lads just wind the coppers up. They ask why they don't catch proper crooks.”_ Tobio continues with his head dipped, focused on his guitar once more, like summer showers and bustling Tokyo nights overlooked from the comfort of a warm apartment, and Atsumu watches, with cheeks that ache from smiling so hard.

He thinks that this is it.

“—san?”

He thinks he’s in love.

“Hey, Miya-san?”

Tobio’s arm is on Atsumu’s shoulder, guitar placed down, blue eyes brimming with a look that makes the older boy want to melt into him. The space between them is minimal, what with Atsumu’s hand still fisted into Tobio’s collar, yet it’s still a stretch too far for his desire. He feels euphoric, drunk on something that isn’t just the whiteclaws they had downed in quick succession. So he asks, voice catching, husky and so full of want that it almost makes him embarrassed. Almost, almost, _almost_. Because in the end, he still manages to ask the one thing he’s been thinking all evening.

“I wanna...Can I…” He bites his lip and the words teeter on his tongue, but he’s not going to cower, not this time, “Can I kiss ya’, Tobio-kun?”

He watches as Tobio’s mouth goes slack and blood rushes to his cheeks, a proper response escaping him as the room falls into silence for the first time all night, dense and heavy, like a hundred revelations are about to descend, about to crash through the roof and crush their mortal frames. Then Tobio chews the inside of his cheek and Atsumu wonders if this was a bad idea, but bad ideas be damned, he just wants to be truthful for once, for the first time in at least two fucking years, the first time since the sky weeped and Tobio sobbed over the grainy phone connection. Grieving with every bone that made up his figure, making Atsumu want to keep him close despite the prefectures separating them.

But he is here now, summer brings his love about and winter carries him away with the migrating birds. Their love is on a time crunch, and Atsumu has all too often chased sunlight that slipped through his grip, so this time he won’t watch Tobio clammer onto the train and leave him behind without telling him the truth. He won’t let the changing seasons dictate his courage.

That’s when Tobio’s lips twitch in an attempt to answer, and when he cannot formulate one, he just nods his head, eyes darting to the floor as the faintest strawberry blush dusts over his cheeks. And Atsumu feels like he’s on top of the world when he tugs him by his shirt, ceasing the space between their mouths.

The first kiss is a faint brush of lips, more so an accidental touch than an exchange of intimate feelings. But then Atsumu lets one of his hands wander up, settling on Tobio’s jaw, thumb now massaging its slope as he dares to push further. He angles Tobio’s head a little more, tongue running along the seam of the younger boy’s lips just briefly before he exhales, and the sudden breath causes Tobio to shiver in his embrace, lips parting to let out a strangled gasp. And then Atsumu is kissing him again, slower, more deliberately, their mouths slotting together like a dovetail.

Like all things Atsumu does, the kiss is unkempt with ardent craving, his hands either side of Tobio as he leans over him, the two of them sinking, a ship overtaken by a storm, Tobio’s back meets the seabed and Atsumu’s legs straddle him like he is a lifeboat. He lets a hand drop down to his waist as the other gets lost in the anthracite silk of Tobio’s hair, tugging and pulling, eliciting a helpless whine from the boy beneath him.

The boy that he is kissing.

The boy that he adores with every atom of his being, every skin cell and fibre.

The boy that he loves.

“Y’know I’ve wanted to do this for a real long time,” He pulls back just long enough to admit this, taking in the sight, Tobio’s saliva-slick lips glistening under alabaster luster tiptoeing in through the window. He is pinned to the ground, a magnum opus made of tender brushstrokes and harsh lines around his sculpted face, blue hues that bleed from his eyes into Atsumu’s sanity, and sincere looks that are guarded by the soft edges of lashes. Lashes that flutter at Atsumu as Tobio stares up at him, half-lidded expression and parted lips coated cherry-red, inviting him back in for another kiss.

_“Miya-san.”_

“Ya’ can’t be callin’ me that no more. M’not ‘Miya-san’,” He accentuates every word with a kiss, trailing away from Tobio’s mouth to his jaw to the crook of his neck. All the while Tobio’s grip on his t-shirt grows, nails now digging into him as he stumbles over his words, a slight slur in his breathless attempts to speak.

“But Miy—”

“What did I just tell ya’?” Atsumu feels like his head is underwater, all previous lucidity now translucent as a haze falls over his better judgement, cotton-stuffed nose and liquor-seduced thoughts. He nips at the shell of Tobio’s ear, voice soporific, subdued, a murmur that sizzles until both his mouth and Tobio’s neck are scalded, “Just say my name, Tobio.”

There’s silence, then a shallow breath from Tobio, his fingers curling into the bleached ringlets of Atsumu’s undercut, “Okay... _Atsumu_.”

“See how much prettier that sounds? Might just be yer voice though.” Atsumu almost implodes from how sappy that was, but the wobbly smile on Tobio’s face makes his heart melt, and he presses down on him, pulling him into a hug that should have come years ago.

His hands curl around Tobio’s waist, and Tobio nuzzles into his nape, their chests rising in unison, lighter yet heavier than before. The night feels like it is filled with a new song, a melody of love, of youth intertwining with the possibility of forever, of swollen lips and the lingering flavour of berries, seltzer and sugar. And for the first time, Atsumu feels content, feels as though there is finally someone on this Earth that can stand being held by hands that are enflamed and arms that are capable of burning down everything.

“I like you a lot, y’know that Tobio?” He whispers it into the top of Tobio’s head, eyes fluttering shut so he could store this moment somewhere safe within his memories.

“I like you too.” Tobio says, voice muffled and like music to Atsumu’s ears.

And as the sound of the crowd chanting lyrics along with him pries Atsumu away from the memories of two teenage boys huddled together in their own world, sharing dreams and body heat, kisses and confessions, he can’t help but wish that was were the story ended, with hopefulness, with love, with his heart held gently in Tobio’s hands.

Streaming downpours race down the window and Atsumu trudges into the hotel room, shivering from the cold outside. He had just said goodnight to the rest of the band, worn out from their first gig this big. Things have been on the up ever since the Jackals signed with a label early in the year, and Meian has proven to be an amazing manager. Things aren’t perfect yet, they still have work to do before they can be considered ‘big’ but at least they’re on the way to the top now. Of course Atsumu is grateful beyond words, but right now his muscles ache and he would want nothing more than to curl up in bed with his boyfriend.

As expected, Tobio is in the room waiting for him, sprawled on the sofa, glued to whatever video he’s watching on his phone. He’s only here for as long as the Jackals stay in Tokyo, since the Adlers are here all year round, currently sharing a small apartment for the three of them. Tobio had asked if Atsumu wanted to stay there instead but the thought of Hoshiumi being a massive hindrance to their alone time made the hotel seem like a haven.

He walks over and parts Tobio’s bangs to plant a kiss on his forehead, “S’late, weren’t ya’ tired?”

Tobio yawns despite vehemently denying being worn out. And when Atsumu chuckles teasingly, he merely pouts, a lightness in his tone as he runs his hands through the older boy’s hair, “Why do you have to be such an asshole, ‘Tsumu?”

“Awww but ya’ love me.” He clammers onto the sofa as well, not very bothered by the tight squeeze or the fact that he is practically lying on top of Tobio.

Tobio snorts, “Guess I do.”

“Whaddya mean _guess_?”

“You know what I mean.”

Atsumu feigns confusion, tilting his head and scrunching his brows, “Nope. Ya’ gotta tell me.”

“Shut up.”

“Yer so rude, Tobio-kun.”

"Aww but you love it.” Tobio mimics, acting all sarcastic. Atsumu stares up from Tobio’s torso, chest warm and buzzing as the younger boy gives him the most genuine smile he has ever seen. Sincere and sweet, just like everything about Tobio.

A few moments pass in silence and Tobio cards his fingers through Atsumu’s hair, both of them enjoying the sound of raindrops creating a melody against the glass of the window. Nature serenading the city with its powers.

“Hey, ‘Tsumu?” Tobio eventually calls, stopping the soothing patterns he was making against Atsumu’s scalp. He continues when Atsumu gives him a little grunt of acknowledgement, “I got a call today. Or Ushijima did and then he called me, but same thing, right?”

Tobio goes quiet again and Atsumu shifts onto his knees. He places a hand on Tobio’s knee, trying to reassure as the younger boy tries to figure out whatever he needs to say, mouth opening and then snapping back shut. Atsumu tries to scan his face for signs, any hints on what this must be about, all he manages to read is confliction.

“Tobi, yer startin’ to scare me.” He moves his hand up to caress his cheek, tilting his head to their gaze meets, “There ain’t nothin’ that should make ya’ this nervous, not with me here.”

Tobio sucks in a breath and the faintest smile curls at the ends of his mouth, “A record label wants to sign us. They said they saw that video Hoshiumi and Hinata forced us to upload.”

Atsumu’s eyes go wide and for a second he doesn’t know what to do. It takes a second or two for the new information to sink in, even though it is only a few words, spoken by the boy right before his eyes, larger than life. Atsumu just grabs him on instinct, tugging him in for a celebratory kiss. And when he pulls back Tobio’s face is flushed and his own has broken into a wide grin.

“Jesus Tobio.” He manages to speak, laughing a little. “Jesus, I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.”

Atsumu feels giddy with excitement, tingling with pride from the tips of his toes to the odd strands sticking up from his head. God, he wants to run, to shout, to tell the rest of the Jackals, tell everyone, that Kageyama Tobio, his damn boyfriend is finally achieving a new part of their shared dream.

“We gotta tell everyone,” Atsumu pulls Tobio off the sofa, running off a newfound energy, “I mean, we gotta celebrate, hit the bars, I don’t know. We gotta do somethin’.”

He scrambles to try retrieve his coat from where he dumped it upon his return to the room but Tobio grasps him by the wrist holding him back.

“Atsumu wait, that’s not all.” Now Tobio looks just a little more sombre, twiddling his thumbs before pressing the pads of his fingers against each other, like he only does when he needs to focus or is nervous. After taking in a shaky breath he finally spits it out, “L.A.”

Atsumu knits his brows so hard he expects question marks to start circling the crown of his head.

Tobio slumps a little, “You know Nicolas Romero, right?”

Atsumu nods. Duh he knows Romero, the guy was a legend in the music industry, now opting to find new talent, “What about him?”

“It’s his record label…and we need to go to L.A,” Tobio swallows, wincing at the words he has yet to say, “The day after tomorrow.”

Atsumu’s mouth is pursed but slightly open and loose, eyes transfixed and glassed over, as if he’s looking at something a yard behind Tobio’s head. He tries to speak but his tongue feels heavy, no longer fitting in the cavity of his mouth.

What the fuck?

L.A?

The day after tomorrow?

The rain no longer feels like a soothing sound. The pattering of the tempest outside the safety of this room is suddenly too much, clouds spitting out hatred and overpowering Atsumu’s senses. His throat feels tight, chest being pulled apart in two different directions.

“Atsumu?” Tobio’s voice comes out small, and Atsumu can’t bring himself to respond.

He shifts his weight awkwardly, fighting back the sickly feeling settling in the back of his throat. His ears feel blocked, stuffed with something that ruins his sense of balance as he leans against the telly stand.

Tobio calls his name again but he just blinks, trying to force the stinging feeling from his eyes.

“I just don’t get it.” Atsumu shakes his head, finally finding his voice after god knows how long, as he tries to swat away the migraine that is surely setting in.

“What is there to get?” Tobio stands across from him, the smallest hint of a smile that was originally on his face dissolving into a confused frown, “I know its not ideal but—”

Atsumu can’t help the bitter huff that leaves his nostrils, “ _Not ideal_.”

Tobio stiffens slightly, shoulders going tense, “Atsumu...don’t.”

“Don’t what, Tobio?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, head feeling far too heavy for his neck. There is no heat in his voice, leaving him to sound almost devoid of himself, as if his heartbeat is so steady that it may stop at any moment.

Staring at Tobio now reminds him of the many miles between Hyogo and Miyagi, the distance that he has been trying to diminish over the last few years. Tokyo and Osaka are just as bad, but they’re adults now, the train ensures that summer isn’t the only time they can be near each other. But Atsumu doesn’t know if he can do this, not when four hundred miles suddenly become five thousand and seven hundred miles. That sort of distance is overwhelming, too much strain on the red string that he is sure connects their pinkies.

“I...I don’t fuckin’ _get it_.”

Why is Tobio so willing to create that much distance between them again? Was their teenage pining not long enough? Doesn’t he want to find a way to be side by side?

Tobio grits his teeth, “What is so hard about this? Just _talk_ to me.”

Atsumu presses his lips into a thin line, unable to help the way his voice gets louder and more desperate, “What’s so hard about this is that I don’t get what’s out there that isn’t here?”

A tense silence befalls their room, noises of the raging storm outside being the only thing to disrupt it. Atsumu bites his tongue. Shit. That was— He didn’t mean to yell. But it’s too late and it’s also true. He feels that way, he feels that jealous. He feels insecure, because America is a long way away and Tobio could easily leave him behind, forget him. Toss him away for dreams that they promised they would share.

Tobio simply stares at him in disbelief, rubbing his temple as he scoffs, “Potential? The chance to grow? A real singer for the band? A fucking _record deal_?”

“You can sing!” Atsumu exclaims, latching onto that point, “You’re singing for the band already.”

“Because I _have_ to! I don’t want to do that permanently.” Tobio’s voice strains, going soft and hurt as his eyes expose vulnerability that Atsumu doesn’t want to see, “You know that.”

There’s another sigh, and Atsumu no longer knows what to do. Everything is all over the place, all the feelings of pride blending with selfish desire, with ugly insecurities, hardening in his lungs until no air can get through. He wheezes, balling his fists.

“I know. But why stop if yer good? Why make a change?”

“Because that was always the plan, ‘Tsumu.” Tobio throws his hands up in defeat and something about the sight of him getting peeved relieves Atsumu, makes these ugly feelings weigh a little less on his conscience, “I am singing until someone who actually wants to can take my place so I can focus on the guitar.”

Atsumu doesn’t respond to that and Tobio just huffs, frowning so the creases of his brows deepen and his jaw clenches. The sight of this hurts Atsumu’s heart less. He would rather Tobio be mad with him than be upset. The explosive nature of temper and resentment, he can easily deal with. Having a twin brother feels like a life-long training course for that. But the melancholy blues of grief, of despair? He doesn’t know where to begin. Not when it is him who has caused all the pain. He doesn’t know how he will deal with the guilt of leaving Tobio heartbroken.

“L.A is the band’s only choice and I have to go.” Tobio states, and Atsumu feels a few knives pierce his chest.

Is that easy for Tobio? Is it that easy to leave Atsumu?

“Why? Is this not enough for you?” Atsumu seethes, keeping the rest of the question to himself: _am I not enough for you?_

“What the hell does that mean? It must be easy to ask that when your band is already signed,” Tobio’s initial burst of annoyance instantly dies, eyes getting glassy and voice going shaky “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

_“And do me a favour and break my nose.”_

The welling of tears in Tobio’s filmy eyes makes Atsumu’s heart burn with guilt. Bloodshot looks and disarrayed hair adds to this pain and Atsumu is responsible, he can feel this presence of blood staining his hands. Tobio is burning up, and it is all his fault.

He wishes Tobio would make it easy. Wishes he would yell and scream and shout. Wishes that he would spit harsh insults at Atsumu and storm out the door, maybe punch his face in so Atsumu doesn’t have to do the dirty work. Why won’t Tobio help him out? He knows he can’t stand being the one Tobio leaves behind, but he would rather Tobio hurt him so he has an excuse to blame this all on. Something that isn’t as shameful as his own inability to handle distance, to deal with uncertainties, to stifle doubts.

“I’m happy for ya, I am. But L.A? Bein’ so far away? What the fuck is the point of that?”

That only seems to break Tobio further as his lips tremble, a few stray tears dripping down his cheeks, “The point is so I can achieve my dreams. Can’t you just support me like I’ve supported you?”

There’s a beat.

And Atsumu shakes his head. It’s the truth. Maybe he’s not mature enough. Maybe he’s too sensitive. Maybe he wishes that this will push Tobio to kick him out of the room and spit in his face.

_“Or do me a favour and tell me to go away.”_

Maybe he wishes Tobio would tell him to fuck off and never come back.

He’s only asking for a little mercy.

Instead Tobio shatters like precious china in his hands, crumbling to pieces as his confused sobs wrack in the air. He begs for Atsumu to stay, fingers curling into his boyfriend's shirt, tears staining the fabric as he leans his head onto his shoulder, body jerking with shivers of sorrow.

“Don’t leave, ‘Tsumu. Please.”

Atsumu doesn’t speak, afraid that if he does he may wail even louder. Even more afraid that he would expose his vulnerability to Tobio, accidentally making him aware of his jealousy, of his feelings of inferiority. He pries himself from Tobio’s grasp, stepping back and refusing to meet those blueberry eyes. He doesn’t want to watch Tobio’s heart break, not in real time.

“I’ll stay the night in Bokkun’s room. You can sleep here since it’s late and dangerous to travel in the storm.”

The look of disbelief Tobio gives him makes it all even worse.

But that’s before the avalanche of questions burst from Tobio’s mouth, some incoherent as his voice gives in to the pressure that had been mounting.

“Why does it have to be like this?”

Atsumu flinches.

“Can’t you just stay? Aren’t we happy?” Tobio’s words are like daggers to his heart and his wavering voice adds salt to the cuts, leaving Atsumu to writhe in pain.

_“Or do me a favour and stop asking questions.”_

He wishes Tobio would stop questioning this; why can’t he accept that this is for the best? Atsumu is doing him a favour, letting him be free to achieve his half of their dreams. He doesn’t want to he dead weight to Tobio’s success, he also doesn’t want to be the guy left behind, and if this doesn’t happen today, Atsumu is sure it will happen six months down the line, over the fucking phone because they’ll be across he damn globe from each other.

Atsumu wants Tobio to hurt him back, not suffer alone. He wants mercy in Tobio’s cruelty, but all he gets in pain and self-doubt echoing in his sobs.

He reaches for the doorknob and Tobio speaks one last time, sounding tired and voice hoarse, “Don’t you love me?”

Atsumu tenses.

Tobio really doesn’t want to do him any favours, huh?

He doesn’t answer. How can he?

“Good luck, Tobio.”

And with that he closes the chapter on their relationship, but when he lies on Bokuto’s sofa that night Tobio’s words won’t leave him alone and his mind fixates on his ex. He had always thought Tobio was the shore to his forest fire – the rain to his bonfire – always there to put him out. To satisfy his hunger and to placate all his heavy emotions. But tonight he came to a new realisation.

Tobio is not the sea or the rain or the product of weeping clouds. He is kerosene, eager to burn, and tonight Atsumu struck the match and lit him on fire. Now he hopes that all that remains of Tobio shall not be ashes. He wishes for a phoenix heading for the sky, before he realises that it is no longer his place to wish for anything Kageyama-related.

_“Well, she walked away while her shoes were untied,”_

Atsumu stumbles into a cab the morning after the award show with his hair messed up and clothes crumpled, leaving a hotel room and a sleeping Tobio behind. The same thing he did on the night they broke up, but with less arguments. He can’t stop thinking about everything Tobio told him when they were drunk, but he forces himself to focus, glaring at his phone screen and the many missed calls from his bandmates and Meian.

Fuck. They were meant to leave Tokyo today but he overslept (and overthought everything to do with Tobio but no one needs to know that). He scrolls through his messages to the most recent one in which Meian shares an article like and then says _‘not an excuse for delaying the entire band, meet us at the airport.’_

And when Atsumu opens the link his blood goes cold.

Paparazzi pictures of him and Tobio drunkenly heading towards a hotel are plastered all over the page. And to his horror they managed to capture them kissing against a wall right before they reached their destination.

Shit. He cannot come up with a response that isn’t just a long string of expletives and thinks he may implode. Only the sound of the taxi driver asking him _‘where to?’_ distracts him. Once he has replied, Atsumu leans against the window and stares up at the sky like it may solve all his problems.

_“When the eyes were all red. You could see that we'd cried.”_

That is when he catches sight of Tobio, staring down at him from his room window. The distance is not too great, Tobio’s room was not many floors up, but right now Atsumu wishes it was so he wouldn’t be able to see the wobbly frown on his face, the damaged, inflamed skin around his eyes. He doesn’t want to know that he made Tobio cry.

_“And I watched, and I waited 'til she was inside, forcing a smile and waving goodbye.”_

Then Tobio enacts one more gesture of cruelty, one more thing to bury Atsumu under his guilt.

Tobio smiles at him, small and transient. Clearly forced.

Then he disappears from the window as Atsumu’s cab pulls away, leaving the blonde with a burning heart, and too much self-hatred to be healthy.

After all these years Tobio tried to make it easier, tried to do Atsumu a favour but it only made everything hurt more.

_“Curiosity becomes a heavy load.”_

The moving bus makes it difficult for Atsumu to read, motion sickness about to kick in, but he's stubborn, so he forces himself to pick up the magazine left on the coffee table in front of him.

The tour bus is soundless except for the noises of wheels turning against gravel and four am traffic, of which there is obviously very little. Still, he finds it hard to sleep now that they're on tour, the hectic schedule and tour bus make it impossible for some shut-eye, so he often finds himself sitting up in bed, mind-numbingly exhausted but unable to do anything about it. Frequently it results in this: coffee at four am and air pods in to drown out the sounds of the world as he sits alone in the makeshift living room of Black Jackals Bus A.

Atsumu is simply out here because he doesn't want to be a nuisance to his sleeping bandmate by waking him up several hours before they arrive at their destination, especially when said bandmate is Sakusa Kiyoomi. He'd say he got the short straw since Bokuto and Shouyou are in their own bus, probably dreaming peacefully, leaving him to deal with a pissed off Omi if awoken, but then again, he isn't the one who has to deal with a bunkie who can't nod off and is always walking around like a damn phantom.

He doesn't want to blame this insomnia on the breakup, because there are probably a hundred different factors causing it, but he has to admit that it was easier to get back to sleep when he woke up with Tobio wrapped around him like a koala. He wasn't a cure, but he was the next best thing, and now if worst comes to worst, Atsumu will pass out on stage or something. But who cares? Maybe that'll be a wake-up call. It's been a long fucking year and half after all, a long time since he saw Tobio in person for the last time, and Atsumu isn't one to think he isn't good enough, but things don't seem to be looking up even when shows get sold out and The Black Jackals sit at the top end of charts.

He didn't think it would be this bad, but even hearing Tobio's playing on the radio makes him want to crawl up into a ball and avoid the rest of the world for five to ten business days, even if he doesn’t deserve that time to himself.

_Stop thinkin' 'bout Tobio damn it_ , Atsumu scolds himself, nursing a mug of coffee and reaching for that magazine yet again. And that only sours his mood some more, because The Adlers are on the cover because of fucking course they are. Because that is clearly what Atsumu needs: another excuse to think about Tobio.

They are suited up, massive fonts weaving between their legs and arms spelling out _'Romero's Superstars'_. Atsumu scoffs because _christ_ , he hates hearing that name at this point. Nicolas fuckin' Romero, his stupid fuckin' record label and his precious fuckin' Adlers. Screw 'em.

_Yeah, betcha fuckin' wanna_ , a voice that sounds suspiciously like 'Samu the last time Atsumu had this particular spiteful breakdown, helpfully provides, and Atsumu wishes he could get his own brain to shut the hell up for once.

He knows it would be best to leave it be and get back to bed, maybe he could fall asleep. He won't know unless he tries after all.

_“Too heavy to hold.”_

Yet, despite his better judgment, he places down his drink, entirely concentrated on the front page cover of boys he used to know. He’s curious goddamnit. Is that such a crime?

Ushijima has rolled up sleeves, a suit jacket hanging from his shoulder as he perches off to the side, bass guitar in hand and staring into the camera with an intensity that Atsumu would find intimidating if he didn't know the guy in real life. On the opposite side, Hoshiumi is pictured mid-way through spinning drumsticks in his hands, ivory hair let down as he looks down at the camera. A part of Atsumu knows that the whole tall-people-seated-and-Hoshiumi-standing idea must have been his own, and he can't help chuckle a little at the notion of it. Then there's Iwaizumi, the only member Atsumu doesn't personally know. But he's heard his voice on the radio, he's heard Tobio fawn — well, his version of fawn — over how amazing he was when they were in middle school. He is half-lying on the floor, microphone wires curled around his hand, tie undone and shirt untucked.

Then there's Tobio, and Atsumu almost doesn't have the strength to look, but he still does because he's got some sort of self-destructive fuckin' complex.

Everything about him is blue, from those gorgeous azure eyes to the navy waistcoat that's almost too well-fitting. He's seated on what looks to be a throne, expression bored like he couldn't care less, and Atsumu wonders how many times they would have had to reshoot the picture just to get one without him frowning. Of course, he chooses to ponder over this because if he doesn't, his mind will wander off to think about how unbelievably hot Tobio looks sitting like that, slightly slouched against the velvet of his seat, manspreading, a hand pressed to the side of his face, propping up his chin as a guitar, his guitar, the one with blue lightning and a crown engraved in it that Atsumu gifted him for his eighteenth birthday, lies at his feet.

He still has that guitar. Fuck. Atsumu thought he would have smashed it to bits by now, a part of him wishes that he had, wishes so despairingly because he doesn't deserve to be a part of Tobio's life, no matter how small, because he isn't worth it. He was never worth it. He wasn’t worth the screaming or the precious, wasted tears.

**_“Adlers and Jackals: Battle of the Bands?_ **  
**_The Adlers talk about their early days and high school friendships._ **  
**_As well as lead guitarist Kageyama Tobio delving into the lyrics of their first studio album._ **  
**_Interview on page 11.”_ **

Atsumu knows — he knows, he knows, he _knows_ — that now would be the best time to put the magazine down before he dips too far into nostalgia and upsets himself, but he must be a masochist because instead, he finds himself flipping straight to page eleven.

_“Too heavy to hold.”_

(They put his band’s name on the front page, come on, he _had_ to).

The interview itself is not too bad at first, Atsumu ends up reading about how Iwaizumi joined the band, which of course only happened after the original trio moved to L.A, a real sore point for him. Ushijima was visiting his father at Irvine and ran into Iwaizumi who he knew from Miyagi back home in Japan, his vocals impressed Romero and the rest was history.

Atsumu skims over most of the reading, lingering only on when Tobio interjects, which is, unsurprisingly, not very often. But then there’s a question aimed right at him, and Atsumu hates that he’s glad to read Tobio’s thoughts.

_**“So, Kageyama-san, rumour has it you’re really close with Hinata Shouyou, lead guitarist of The Black Jackals? How do you know him and the other Jackals?”** _

_“Hinata and I went to the same high school, we were even in the same band back then, but that was a hobby for some members and by our third year Hinata wanted to take some time to improve on his music so we went our separate ways. Obviously, The Adlers were formed by the time he came back to join The Jackals. We’re still close and talk; we’ve always been really competitive so often our texts are just about things like who sold the most albums or even managed to pull off the more impressive riff. It’s just something we’re used to doing since we were in school. As for the rest of The Jackals, I’m not as close to them anymore, but I’ve known most of them for a really long time. They’re good competition, I guess.”_

Atsumu feels his heart sink a little, and even though he doesn’t want to feel sorry for himself, he can’t help it. It’s like Tobio just reached into his chest and lacerated him muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon, heartstring by heartstring. Though he supposes he deserves it because he was a jealous fuck with too much of an inferiority complex to just be a good boyfriend.

**_“And what about your first full album? You’ve got writing credit for a lot of the songs, can you tell us a bit more about what they mean?”_ **

_“Ah. Well, I’ve been writing some of the songs since I was in high school. Obviously the melody and chords have had to be adjusted a lot to fit the band, but the lyrics…They’ve only been mildly changed. And about what they mean? I guess the songs I wrote just wrap up the last few years of my life, and the others are things we’ve wanted to try as a group. It’s actually really nice to have Iwaizumi-san singing most of the songs I wrote, because he’s someone I’ve known since I was a kid. It’s kind of fitting.”_

**_“What about your favourite song off the album?”_ **

_“...I don’t think I have a favourite. Sunflowers is the one I found the easiest to write, and I like the guitar solo, but that came to me in a sort of difficult time, what with moving to L.A. and all. So, no, I don’t have a favourite...Hoshiumi-san has plenty though [he laughs awkwardly and Hoshiumi smacks his shoulder].”_

It’s odd to read about Tobio talking about writing songs, when there was a time where he couldn’t even find the right words to talk to his bandmates. That was obviously until Shouyou walked into his life and flipped it upside down. He has a tendency to do that. Atsumu wonders if Shouyou knows the songs Tobio has written, wonders if he recognises them from when they would sit huddled up in Karasuno’s music room. He wonders if Tobio ever showed them to him, unlike how he always hid them from him. He’d always tell him to wait, that he could come listen to them live when his band goes on tour for the first time. Atsumu wishes that reality was true, wishes that he had remembered all these little promises that night when he left their hotel room and didn’t turn back.

He finally puts the magazine down, deciding that his heart has already been crushed enough and anymore might result in permanent damage. Resting his head on the arm of the sofa, he puts his music on shuffle and shuts his eyes, hoping to lull himself to sleep for at least an hour. When the familiar sound of 'Do Me A Favour' starts filling his ears, he considers deleting the song from his playlist. But when his thumb hovers over the delete icon, doubt seeps in, and he realises he doesn’t want to throw away all the memories that come with it, no matter what he tells himself.

He wants to sink himself in nostalgia, body soaked in silver and moonlight, a shared youth engraved in his bones and the silk of smiles shared in the secrecy of his bedroom as Tobio sits across from him, practicing the song for the first time at age sixteen, tightening around his throat until he is lightheaded. He doesn’t deserve to taste bittersweet memories, he always falls quite short of the mark, and yet he lets himself think of Tobio, a hundred knives piercing his abdomen.

And when Omi finally gets up, no one discusses the fact that the magazine is no longer on the coffee table, but instead stuffed into a trashcan, a cold coffee cup left by the sofa. Instead the taller man simply asks if Atsumu has had breakfast, to which Atsumu coos something on the lines of, _‘careful Omi-kun, sounds like yer worried ‘bout me’_ and in turn he is told to _‘eat shit, asshole’_.

It’s enough to make Atsumu get off the sofa and stop pitying himself, and he’s glad to have bandmates that keep him grounded, even if it means internally accepting that Sakusa Kiyoomi is not as much of a pain in the ass as he used to be.

Even still, that song brings back memories of singing to Tobio from the other side of Japan, trying to bury away grief and soothe in the only way he could.

It’s a few days into summer break when Atsumu realises he hasn’t seen Tobio this year. The younger boy has been visiting Kazuyo-san every year, and Atsumu is always happy to see him; he’s even more happy when he comes over to play while his grandfather and sister visit the doctors.

(Last year Tobio told him Miwa was moving to Hyogo permanently, something about working in a local hair salon with a family friend. He might get his hair dyed from her, but the low-cost of bottled dye and tinfoil in their bathroom is very appealing, and Miwa’s skills can wait until he has his own cash).

It has become something Atsumu is used to over the last three years – having the Kageyamas there in his life – so it feels weird, wrong almost, to show up to his guitar lessons without Tobio, milk carton in hand, walking beside him on one side with ‘Samu on the other.

He decides to approach his mother about it when he finally can’t stand not having the younger boy perched at the end of his bed, playing all the songs Atsumu loves.

“Ain’t Tobio visitin’ Kazuyo-san and Miwa-chan this year?”

“Oh...Did he not tell ya?”

“Tell me what, Ma?”

The answer he gets is unexpected, lips pressed into a thin, sympathetic frown, like something had been lost, creases forming above his Ma’s eyebrows as she pulls him into a stifling hug. Kisses pressed into his hair, peppered along his scalp, fail to soften the blow and a sickly feeling swamps his stomach, acid bubbling up his lungs upon hearing the words: _“Tobio-kun has already gone back to Miyagi; Kazuyo-san passed away, sweetheart.”_

Everything else turns to static, and Atsumu’s ears feel like they are plugged, a painful ringing replacing every comprehensible thought until the only thing he can manage to say is, “I need to talk to Tobio.”

That’s how he finds himself sitting on the floor of their hall, landline in hand, ringing up the number his Ma told him was for the Kageyama household. He knows that Tobio will be the one to pick up, because he always says his parents work all day, so he presses his nails into his palms, trying to think of something to say. But what can he say? What could possibly soothe the loss of someone your entire world revolved around? Tobio’s love for music, his passion, his dreams; they were all inherited from his grandfather. Atsumu wonders if there is anything in this world that can fill the hole now left in Tobio’s life.

There’s a click on the line and then soft breathing from the other end.

“Tobio-kun, are ya’ okay?” Atsumu forgets about the hellos and how are you’s, tripping face first into the matter at hand.

“Miya-san?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s me. My Ma’ gave me yer home number ‘cause I wanted to check up on ya’.” He hears a little ‘oh’ escape Tobio’s lips and he wishes that they were face to face right now, instead of on opposing ends of the country. He wants to be able to comfort him properly, but he’ll do what he can with all this distance between them, “I...uh...I heard ‘bout Kazuyo-san.”

There’s a long stretch of silence and Atsumu considers that he has hung up, but then there’s a muffled sniffle and his heart catches, like a fly in a spider’s web, vulnerable to carnivorous feelings hunting him down.

“Tobio? Are ya’ crying?”

Another sharp breath is taken in, and Tobio lets out a guttural noise, “I’m... _I’m sorry._ ”

“Oi, what’re ya’ sorry for? Ya’ didn’t do _nothin_ ’, kay?”

Then the dam breaks and the waterworks come crashing through. When Tobio cries there is a rawness to it, like the pain is still an open wound, and Atsumu can barely stand to listen to it. He just clasps onto the phone as tight as possible, knuckles white from his grip, from the contrition of not being able to physically be there for Tobio. The sobs are stifled at first, grief gravelly over the crackling connection, and there is a tiny lapse of palpable taciturnity in which Atsumu carefully questions, trying not to say the wrong thing.

Tobio does his best to answer, stumbling over words that string together the events of the last week, of Kazuyo getting rushed to the hospital, of Miwa trying her best to fill in for their parents, of Tobio and Miwa being alone when the news is broken to them.

Before long the shaking of Tobio’s voice worsens, and his strength collapses again, howls of misery returning. The pain must come in waves, periods of blubbering broken apart by minute pauses for recovering breaths, before he is slung back into the clutch of his bereavement. And all Atsumu can do is whisper words of comfort, wishing he could tuck Tobio away into his embrace.

When the storm settles, Atsumu crosses his legs, head resting against the wall, now aware of a funeral Tobio attended with his sister. The idea of Tobio alone, standing over his grandfather’s coffin makes his stomach drop.

“Hey, Tobio?” Atsumu finally asks after a long stretch of silence, staring out of the window where stars now sparkle in the night sky, “It’s late, do ya’ want me to stay on? Or wouldja rather I hang up?”

“Do you mind staying on? It’s really late, I’m sure you’d rather go to bed.” He pauses, “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“S’not a bother. Not if it’s you.” Atsumu reassures, slowly making his way to the sofa. He can’t go to his room or else Osamu will complain about the noise, so he gets comfortable here instead, “Ya’ can’t sleep?”

Tobio lets out a little noise that sounds like a confirmation. Then he goes quiet again, before meekly calling Atsumu’s name, “Miya-san?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you...Would you mind singing for me?”

Atsumu is a little taken back by the sudden request, but then smiles a little, “And what wouldja like me to sing for ya?”

A little humming sound comes from Tobio’s side of the line, “What about that one you made me listen to about a million times?”

“Be just a _little_ more specific,” Atsumu is aware that he has a bad habit of grabbing Tobio and making him share headphones. But seriously, the kid barely knows any new songs for someone whose entire life revolves around music.

“You know...the one we started learning how to play!” He huffs a little and Atsumu can envision the cute little frown he most definitely has on his face, “The one that has that instrumental break before that final verse.”

And then he’s naming the damn guitar chords; Atsumu has to laugh because that’s just so _Tobio_.

“Ya’ mean Do Me a Favour?” Atsumu is almost offended by how little attention Tobio pays to his interests, “M’not even surprised ya remember it from the guitar notes rather than the fuckin’ name like a normal person.”

“Miya-san, can you please just sing it already?” Tobio whines.

“Tobio, it’s a break up song. That’s what ya’ wanna hear right now?”

Tobio grunts in annoyance and Atsumu can envision the glare he is most definitely shooting the phone right now, “The words don’t matter; your voice is enough.”

Atsumu’s stomach pools with warmth. Fuck. There Tobio goes again, so utterly sincere it makes his heart hurt. The things he would do for this boy, “Fine. Anything you want.”

So he lets his voice carry notes through the phone, warm and soft, full of soothing for a boy he never wants to hear cry ever again. Soon, the dulcet sounds of suspiration fill the call, and Tobio is the first to fall asleep. Atsumu whispers goodnight and hangs up as his eyes grow unbelievably heavy, dreamland homing his tired thoughts.

(And when his mother reprimands him for the phone bill that arrives at their house later in the month, he makes sure to get Tobio’s phone number instead).

Atsumu doesn’t really remember the rest of the awards show, or how he ended up alone at the after-party, completely deserted by the rest of The Jackals with Kageyama Tobio standing across from him. All he does know is that he has downed one too many drinks and is still in a trance from whatever spell Tobio cast during his performance.

He looks...nice. Nice in a different way to earlier, when the limelight made him seem like an ethereal being. Now the eyeliner has been retouched, lips looking a little pinker and glossy, shimmering under strobe lights of the club. His lips leave a print on the edges of his drink, and Atsumu wishes he was that damn glass. He looks away instantly, ashamed that he even thought something like that about Tobio, after everything that happened.

A dense stillness has settled, disrupted only by the music pounding through the speakers. It feels like this is a fragile conversation and Atsumu has no clue if his hands can be trusted to handle it.

“Miya-san.” Tobio nods his head as an acknowledgement of Atsumu’s presence.

Atsumu wants more than just that. He wants to cut to the chase already; what the hell are they dancing around? Why can't they just talk like the friends they used to be?

“I listened to your album by the way,” He stares down at his drink, a funky neon colour that will surely frazzle his already messed up system. It’s been out for at least over a year and now the conversation starter doesn’t seem as good of an idea but Atsumu keeps pushing, “It’s real good.”

Tobio scoffs, “I should hope so: I spent the better half of my teenage life over that album.”

One of his hands is still curled around a glass of whiskey, the other pressed against the bar that Atsumu is leaning against. Hands that bring music to life. Hands that so expertly make their way along a guitar. Hands that write songs that unearth emotions Atsumu has tried to bury six feet under the ground. Hands that could tear Atsumu apart, could wrap around his neck until tears prick at his eyes. Hands Atsumu wishes would run through his hair first thing in the morning, pushing back his bangs to plant a kiss on his forehead.

Fuck, this is all Tobio’s fault. Him and his ridiculously mesmerising performance. Atsumu should probably make an excuse and leave, find Bokuto maybe, maybe head back to his hotel — anything but engaging in more conversation with Tobio.

But he’s always been weak when it comes to him, “Burnt love letters, eh?”

“They weren’t supposed to be,” Tobio settles down his now-empty glass, “I was supposed to sing them for a guy I knew, a long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“He broke up with me, I guess.”

Atsumu smiles politely, lowering his gaze down to the bar, feeling a sense of uncomfortable shame smouldering in the back of his throat. He manages to choke out a response, “Sounds like a real asshole.”

Tobio huffs out a laugh, “Yeah he really was...but I miss him sometimes.”

A sharp breath forces its way from Atsumu’s mouth, hands gripping onto the bar a little tighter. He swallows hard. He could do this, he could reach out and pull Tobio back into his embrace.

He could have this.

Atsumu’s eyes trail up to meet Tobio’s burning gaze.

_He could have Tobio back._

“Think he misses ya’ too,” Atsumu doesn’t look away this time, even as an awkward silence settles yet again.

Tobio moves to say something, mouth opening and then closing.

“This isn’t my sort of thing,” Atsumu feels his chest sink at how quickly Tobio changed the subject, but maybe it is for the better, “It’s kind of loud and I’ve lost my bandmates, so I wanna get out of here.”

He nods, expecting Tobio to leave him here, like he left him all those years ago. The ultimate payback. But then the younger man tugs on his shirt sleeve, staring at him like there was something he wanted to say.

“What, Tobio-kun?”

For a brief moment, it looks like Tobio might smile, his eyes wide, but then he lets go, electing to grab Atsumu’s drink from in front of him, knocking back the liquid with no hesitation. He pulls back again, eyes squeezed shut as he shakes his head at the obviously strong and bitter taste now remaining in his mouth.

“Do you wanna get out of here too?” His voice is low, eyes half-lidded as his gaze scans Atsumu’s figure.

_“Curiosity becomes a heavy load.”_

The older man feels his stomach drop, and he digs his teeth into his lower lip, very aware that they are both drunk and that this could prove to be a very big mistake. But Tobio’s right there, and he’s _asking_ , and he misses him — _god, he misses him so much_. There’s lipgloss on his lips and Atsumu wants to smudge it with his mouth; his hair is gelled up and he wants to pull it, mess it up so it’s mussled. He feels like he’s seventeen all over again and on cloud fucking nine, and he wants so strongly that there are no words that can express it.

He wonders if their bodies still fit the way they used to. What can he do? He’s human and he’s always been so goddamn _weak_ for Tobio.

So he nods, standing up and placing a guiding hand on Tobio’s elbow as he leans in to whisper in his ear, “My hotel’s fifteen minutes away.”

“Mine’s five.” The lines of Tobio’s mouth form the slightest smirk, and Atsumu lets him lead the way, too occupied by the searing press of a hand against his back.

Sometime in the night when Atsumu finally tires, rolling onto his back and shutting his eyes, he hears Tobio return from the bathroom, slipping into the covers beside him.

Atsumu doesn’t want to think too hard about what happened in the time between them slipping away from the afterparty, barely making it back to Tobio’s hotel room before they were all over each other, somehow like no time yet all the time in the world had passed since they last held each other quite like this. Since they had talked in any way, shape or form.

He doesn’t want to think too hard but he does.

He thinks about all the little things Tobio whimpered against his skin, a few soft confessions of hating him, of despising Atsumu for hurting him. Atsumu doesn’t let his mind linger, forcing his brain to find something else to think about.

That is when Tobio’s voice rings in the dark, “Hey, Miya-san?”

Miya-san. They’re back to that again. Guess ‘Tsumu only came back for as long as he was under him, or for as long as the alcohol was still working its magic.

Atsumu doesn’t respond, he is afraid of the conversation they might share. After a few moments he hears a sigh and feels the covers shifting until the warmth of Tobio’s body is pressed against him. He didn’t realise how much he missed this feeling, this comfort of having a body that fit so perfectly, so close.

“Guess you’re asleep.” Tobio’s hot breath tingles the skin of Atsumu’s neck, “That’s fine. I don’t know if I could say these things if you were awake.”

It takes all the concentration in the world for Atsumu to not tense up at Tobio’s admission.

“I don’t know, I thought I was just pissed at you.” Tobio chuckles airily, “I definitely am, definitely have been for a while. I mean it’s been three years you asshole. Three years and no fucking apology, not even a damn hi. God, you piss me off so much.”

Atsumu wants to tell him that he already said that but he would much rather listen.

“It absolutely pisses me off that you just left me that day. Over fucking what? A record deal? Bullshit. I wanted you to love me more than that, enough to try at least. And the fact that you didn’t do even that, makes me want to hate you.” Atsumu feels Tobio move around beside him, heated figure coming closer as a heavy hand settles on his abdomen, “But the worst thing is, even after everything, I still love you...more than anything.”

With that, Tobio falls asleep, probably content now that Atsumu can’t even pretend to sleep anymore. Slumber stolen by confessions that he wishes he never heard.

Even after all these years, Tobio doesn’t want to do him any favours, doesn't want to let him heal from the scarring of guilt.

But maybe he deserves it.

_“Too heavy to hold,”_

Early morning sunlight drips in through the window like an aurelian elixir, layering itself on Tobio’s skin, bronzed from days under the Los Angeles sun. The glitter from his performance last night still remains, lining his bitten collarbones, trailing down his cheeks like tears of starlight, glistening as it comes in contact with the light. His lashes mingle with halcyon hues, curled and resting against his skin, and Atsumu can’t help but remember the many mornings before this one that consisted of this very thing: a Tobio so heavenly that he can do nothing more than merely admire his beauty.

_“And the worst thing is, even after everything, I still love you.”_

The echo of Tobio’s words from last night stop Atsumu’s hand mid-action, and he pulls back from fixing Tobio’s hair. This isn’t what he should be doing; why the hell did he let himself get so comfortable?

Evidence of his bad judgement is all over Tobio’s skin, red indents shaped by his teeth, pomegranate welts created by his tongue, like he was a canvas for Atsumu to colour his every mistake upon.

He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to be here, not when he hurt Tobio so much. Every little drunken admission Tobio let slip from his lips tightens around Atsumu’s neck, testimonies of affection and animosity alike, a noose designed specifically to awaken all the guilt the alcohol managed to numb last night. But the morning brings a hangover, a dull headache residing in the back of his brain, and culpability that he should never have let go of.

He stumbles out from the bed as quietly as possible so as to not disturb the sleeping Tobio. Then he goes about the room, picking up the clothes that had been strewn around with little care. As he tries getting back into his ridiculously tight leather pants without toppling over the plant pot — _seriously, how the fuck did he get out of these things last night?_ — he leans against the dresser, catching his reflection in the mirror.

Fading blue-purple indents in the shape of fingers are dug into the base of his neck; a love letter from the very depths of Tobio’s hatred, a sonnet declaring three years worth of heartsickness. Tobio’s lipstick stains are hot brands, scorched into Atsumu’s skin, trailing down to his hip bones — a sign of his crimes. His muscles ache and red streaks run down his back, the pathway created by Tobio’s nails.

He finds his shirt and slips back into it, about to rush out the door when Shouyou’s words stop him in his tracks: _“You don’t know how many times he told me how much he loves you. Yet you can’t seem to forgive yourself when that isn’t something you have to do. And you know why? Because he never even blamed you.”_

According to him, Tobio has never blamed him, but one look at a peaceful Tobio makes Atsumu’s stomach contort in on itself. Pallid hues colour his cheeks and the guilt is so deep seeded that it is dug not within his chest but in the deep crevices of his brain. He could try to make amends in subtle ways, but being anywhere near Tobio, let alone being close to him feels like something he shouldn’t deserve. He knows that Tobio’s love, his forgiveness, are things he so desperately wants but also isn’t worthy of. The shreds of his sanity teeter in this moment, hung between distance and the door, or curling back in bed and having to face his every mistake, leaving himself at the mercy of Tobio.

But in the end, Atsumu has always been a little too hard on himself, and he chooses to walk away, fully rooted in the belief that Tobio’s life would simply be better without him in it. After all, he moved across the globe for his career, and Atsumu couldn’t handle it back then — he probably still can’t handle it now.

_“Will force you to be cold.”_

As the door closes behind him, he wishes that Tobio will finally hate him, that he will blame him so the hurting goes away. He tries to shake away the feeling that he has made the same mistake two times now.

He blames his damned curiosity, his need for Tobio that just won’t be stifled. But really, he knows he should just blame his cowardice.

The pull of the crowd drags Atsumu back to reality, as sweat beads drip from the tendrils of his golden hair, hands moving up and down to fret strings as he leans down towards his guitar. His soul is on display, bright and shining and oh so fucking _vulnerable_.

On display for Tobio. For him to scrutinise, to pull apart, to find answers that Atsumu couldn’t vocalise.

As the instrumental goes on he cannot seem to tear his eyes from Tobio, transfixed with this desire for the younger man to know how much he regrets everything. The thumping of bass and banging of drums is filling his senses as his fingers perform what is second nature to them, perhaps even a prayer for Tobio, a request, a beseechment of his time, of his forgiveness.

But all he gets back is a steely look that reminds him of a phone call from two months ago. A final and clear declaration that Tobio was finally doing Atsumu that favour. Finally hating him enough to say it, to feel it, to announce it.

Atsumu remembers how his thumb hovered over the number that Hinata ensured was Tobio’s new contact. He had wondered if the sky would come crashing down on how if he pressed it.

In the end, he did exactly that and then winced in anticipation. Nothing happened, and the tense ringing of the phone had filled the air of his bedroom, only to be replaced by strained conversations when Tobio picked up.

He remembers uneven breathing, remembers asking if Tobio was okay, if the tabloids were right about his hiatus and his injured wrist. It was a clumsy attempt at communication, but Atsumu was worried goddamnit. He still fucking cared and he didn’t know how to stop.

“Just need a few months off. The band will be back in six months maybe.” Tobio had said, maybe that’s why he is here right now. Standing in the crowd instead of being one of the stars on the roster.

Then he said, “It’s fine. Paparazzi has been tough to deal with though.”

Atsumu remembers the way he had tensed upon hearing that, the way he had taken it the wrong way, daring to make this about himself, “Yeah. I’m sorry about the whole hotel stuff. I thought they wouldn’t have seen us.”

It seemed like a correct assumption, he was still being asked about Tobio in interviews at the time after all. With the hindsight he now possesses, he wishes he could’ve gotten himself to keep his mouth shut.

But he clearly didn’t and the unimpressed scoff Tobio let out still rings in his ears, as do the words he spat next, “Jesus, stop flattering yourself. My career doesn’t revolve around you, you know?”

The thought of those words causes a bad taste to linger in his mouth, even now.

“Whatever Miya-san. If you’re done now, can I hang up?”

“W-wait. I heard from Shouyou that you’re coming to visit him in Osaka,” He bites his tongue on instinct, mimicking the way he had done so that night, remembering the way he dared not ask Tobio if he could see him, “Tobio if you need anything, please don’t be a stranger.”

The static and silence that had followed was evident enough of an answer, but Tobio is used to making everything as blunt as possible, a habit that he can’t help. A habit he definitely didn’t hold back in that moment, on that night, finally done with Atsumu’s bullshit.

“You made me a stranger, Miya-san. I don’t think I’ll need anything from you.”

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut, feeling warm trickles run down his cheeks as he leans towards the mic. The music all around him has swelled. The wave of notes crashing down on his figure, pulling the plug on a cascade of memories and regret. His throat almost closes up, but he forces through, a pained tone colouring the hues of his voice.

_“And do me a favour, and ask, if you need some help.”_

He hopes the melody is a clear message to Tobio, spelling out everything he had gone through, everything he had experienced, that any career, that any jealousy or insecurity is not worth the terrible price of not having him close.

Atsumu can’t believe it took Tobio finally hating him to make him realise that there is nothing in this world that fulfills him quite like his love.

_“She said, do me a favor, and stop flattering yourself.”_

He finds the courage to look up and meet Tobio’s gaze, dizzy from all the cyan, from the life that he wishes he had. They’re still young, but those eyes show him so many years that he wants to drown himself in.

The hazel of his eyes is shimmering with golden tears, stage lights burning through his soul, hands curled around the microphone with a desperation he didn’t know he possessed as he sees Tobio shift, finding a way out from the crowd.

And his heart breaks all over again, as the song rises and amplifies, reaching out into the crowd like ghostly hands, trying to compel Tobio to stay. To listen to his pleads. Everything he feels, every little sorrow and regret, seeps into the audience. For a brief moment, they are one with Atsumu, augmenting his voice, his begging; his pain is their pain, just for a moment, just a fraction.

The crescendo is overwhelming, feelings that had been culminating over four long years finally crash into Atsumu like a great wave, intent on burying him in the seabed, right here and now.

_“And to tear apart the ties that bind_  
_Perhaps ‘fuck off’ might be too kind_  
_Perhaps ‘fuck off’ might be too kind.”_

Atsumu falls into the movement yet again, breathing heavy as he stares at the ground, awaiting the last note to be played, hoping that when he looks up Tobio is still there. Waiting. Ready to listen. To forgive.

But when he does the air is empty, the cheers and screaming cannot fill the void that Tobio’s retreating figure leaves behind. His heart is caught in his throat, and he cannot swallow in back down, feeling lightheaded and sick.

From the side Shouyou is shooting him a pointed look, like he has finally pieced together what is going on. The hard look in his eyes says one thing, clear as day: _‘go fucking apologise.’_

Atsumu doesn’t need to be told twice, slipping from his guitar and sucking in a sharp breath before taking off. He pushes his way through the busy backstage, not even stopping for Meian’s exasperated yells, shouting a half-assed apology as he makes his exit. He runs through this maze of building, almost getting lost in winding side rooms as the sky rumbles. He doesn’t realise it had begun raining until he is half way through the field, shoving his way through drunken festival-goers as heavy rain meets his shoulders, drenching the denim of his jacket. Drops of rain beat against his skin like hammers, they drench his hair until it stickers to his forehead, but he dares not stop, despite the rain. It’s like he’s a teenager again, and he can’t let Tobio catch the train back to Miyagi without saying a proper goodbye.

He finally finds Tobio right at the end, past tents and caravans, standing alone on the concrete, under an umbrella, phone pressed to his ear. His lungs feel empty, stinging as he tries to fill them with air and speak at the same time. Instead he coughs harshly, choking because of that foolish attempt at talking.

That catches Tobio’s attention and he is suddenly looking at him. Atsumu feels cerulean colour his skin as Tobio gapes, mild confusion evident as his bottom lips hangs loose.

“Hey...Hey Tobio-kun.” Atsumu wheezes, trying to catch his breath, “Can I...apologise...to you?”

He expects to hear the crunch of boots against cracked parking spot tarmac, but what he gets instead is a huff of air from Tobio’s lips, light, good-natured. Atsumu snaps his head up only to be met with Tobio holding out his umbrella, offering to house him from the cascading downpour.

And then to any passerby they are merely two men, huddled together under the sanctuary of a black umbrella and not two men hiding from the world as a lifetime of history unravels, washed away by the tempest around them, and replaced by intertwining fingers and palms squeezed with reassurance, with unspoken forgiveness told through Tobio’s thumb dragging along Atsumu’s knuckles as they wait for his cab. A hundred apologies slipping from Atsumu's lips.

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to tani (@/killuastobio on twt) for beta-ing some of this!
> 
> aaaa anyway, not my favourite fic tbh, but atskg band au makes me feral so i kept going. maybe kept going too much cuz i meant to make this like 4000 words but it’s over four times that....uhhh just smile and wave yall. 
> 
> totally late entry for hq angst week day 6
> 
> and yeah! thanks for reading! and if you wanna scream abt hq and atskg hmu on my twitter @/kaikxge!!


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